


What to Expect When a Dwarf Is Expecting

by sam_ptarmigan



Series: The Affairs of Dwarves [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a dwarven pregnancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lianna-snow to benefit Typhoon Haiyan relief.

It was always so simple in the stories. 

In old tales and fireside poems alike, a jill rose from the rutting bed—rather less befuddled, sticky, and pasty-mouthed than Dori had—and knew at once whether or not a pearl was forming in her belly. How exactly the knowledge came about was never fully explained, and Dori had never bothered himself with the finer details when sighing over a good love story. He regretted that now, for here he was in the middle of the wild, still wearing the lingering scent of five hobs upon him, with no idea of what his body had elected to do.

He did feel...different. He felt very nice, in fact. There was a lovely, settled feeling all through him from the rounds of his ears to the tips of his toes, and while his fever had broken with the end of his heat, he remained decidedly warm and tingly. It was a far cry from the heavy head and sensitive mood he was accustomed to in the wake of a heat spent alone, but how was he to know the difference between the relief of having been rutted and the satisfaction of having been bred?

His chest was still tender, but he thought that might have been normal, not least with the pawing it had received. He had not bled yet, but then he wasn't due to for another week and a half, even if this late condition ran to schedule. His cheeks were aglow, his vigour high, and he was having some difficulty keeping a smug smile from his lips, but surely that was owing to the sound balancing of humours he had been treated to by half the company. And, he had to admit, to Balin in particular. Who had begun drafting a marriage contract. On birch bark, for want of paper and with no inclination to wait.

"Come on, out with it," Nori demanded, falling into step with Dori and elbowing him in the side as the company broke camp.

Dori swallowed the piece of dried fish he had been working on and frowned at his brother. "Out with what?"

"Ori's going to pop his clogs if you don't tell him he's going to be an uncle."

Dori glanced skeptically back at Ori. Ori did not seem to be on the verge of popping anything, but was walking some distance behind with Bilbo, chatting pleasantly about what was no doubt some respectable topic like books or herb lore. 

He turned narrowed eyes upon Nori. "Do you have _money_ on this?"

Nori made a very sorry attempt at looking insulted. "Would I make book on such a thing? Your own loving brother?"

"Yes," Dori said flatly.

The defamed expression gave way easily to a cheeky grin. "All right, maybe some silver. Give me a hint and we'll split the take."

Dori did not reply, and after a few steps, Nori's smile faded. 

"You're not?" Nori ventured.

The sudden sympathy in his voice ruffled Dori worse than the thought of being bet on. Leave it to Nori to have assumed the answer was otherwise and only now have the sense to realise it might be a sensitive subject.

"I don't know," Dori said.

Nori's brow creased in a puzzled frown. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know!" Dori snapped.

Balin, who was walking ahead with Thorin, immediately looked over his shoulder. Dori forced a reassuring smile and shook his head. Balin's gaze remained on him for a moment, cautious and concerned, before he returned to his conversation. 

Nori snorted. "Look at the sweetheart." He jostled Dori in the ribs again. "I heard pissing on wheat is supposed to work. If it sprouts, you've got an iron in the forge."

"It's barley," Dori countered, "and that's just an old jilly's tale."

"It's wheat," Nori insisted and then scratched his chin in thought. "Or maybe you piss on both and if the barley sprouts, it's a jill, and if the wheat sprouts, it's a hob."

"That's all very well and good," Dori said waspishly, "but do you see any wheat or barley about?"

If there were, he mused, he would much rather grind them to flour and make a real loaf of bread. Cram kept body and spirit together, but even a few unleavened scones would be worth their weight in gold right now. His mouth watered slightly at the mere memory of soft, freshly baked bread, and creamy butter, and perhaps a smear of tart blackberry jam on top. His stomach gave a guttural growl.

Nori craned his neck, peering at Dori's midsection. "It sounds like you've got _something_ in there."

Dori aimed a punch at him, but Nori was already dancing away with a laugh. 

Of all the times to miss his mother. Yes, Óin would likely know the way of it, given how many babies he had delivered, and there were two married hobs among the company—Bombur a sire three times over—but he couldn't bring himself to ask them and betray his ignorance. At least his mother always assumed none of her children knew their own minds, and if she were here, she would sit him down and, oh, peer at the whites of his eyes and smell his breath and demand to know the colour of his waters, and just like that she would shake her head and tut over what a silly goose he was before revealing the truth of the matter as if it were as clear as diamonds.

His good spirits wilted slightly with the bother of it all until Balin fell back to walk with him and wordlessly offered his arm. Dori took it gladly, tucking his hand in the warm crook of Balin's elbow, and forced his thoughts instead to the promised friend of Gandalf's ahead, and to the mountain beyond, and to what exactly he might serve at a wedding feast.

That evening, he and Balin stole away from the rest of the company (or so Dori liked to believe, though there was no truly disappearing without raising alarm in their present circumstances) and had a lovely cuddle. They laid down their coats for a makeshift blanket and sat together in the relative shelter of the dip between two small hills, keeping an eye on the company's fire in the distance. 

"Real estate?" Balin murmured sweetly in his ear, slipping off his gloves and insinuating his bare hands into Dori's shirt.

Dori twirled a lock of Balin's beard around his finger and then tickled his chin. "The restaurant is leased, paid up to the end of the year." 

"Future rents paid from the household accounts?" 

He shook his head, unbuckling Balin's belt. "From the business account. Let's keep it under pre-marital managements. It's tidier that way." 

"Agreed."

"With a provision—" 

"Hm?" 

He struggled to get the words out before the gentle nibbling at his neck made thinking too difficult. "—that rent or purchase of a second restaurant is funded from joint coffers." 

"Agreed," Balin said and then promptly tumbled him down.

The urgency born of his heat had subsided, but his heart went pitter-patter nonetheless as he was tipped backwards. This was sweeter than the madness, more akin to indulging in pudding than starving for dinner. It would be even nicer in a proper bed, he thought, with time enough to take their clothes off, but they traded some perfectly lovely kisses—both above the shoulders and well below—and drove each other to warm, soft peaks and gasping shivers with mouths and hands.

Afterwards, they sneaked back to the camp and bedded down together. Sleeping rough was much nicer with a shoulder to pillow his head, and Dori thought again of the pleasure of a full bed and soft blankets. Maybe that—this—would be quite enough to be going on with. As much as he missed the pudgy little armful and cheerful gurgles and giggles of Ori's babyhood, he did not pine for all those small-hour feedings and changing of nappies. With Ori's sire dead, he had taken on the mantle of second parent. He had been there, making tea every time his mother woke up to nurse, and he had held Ori in his arms from sunset to sunrise when he'd been screaming with the colic, and he had sat up in worry every time Ori had the sniffles.

To have been courted so well by his fellows was nearly payment enough for this quest. To reclaim Erebor and secure his share of the profits settled up the bill. A husband would already be the cream and cherries atop the cake. Although he wouldn't say no to some real clotted cream right now...

The craving followed him down the road, through an ill-timed bout of running for his life, and into the skin-changer's cottage. Surely there was a little cheese about, he found himself thinking in the middle of the night after waking up with a grumbling stomach. He tiptoed around the sleeping company and peered about the dark kitchen.

So intent was he on trying to get a glimpse of what lay atop the overly tall table that he did not notice the bear-man until the shadows directly in front of him moved. He let out a squeak and leapt back in alarm, reaching for the knife that was in fact somewhere in the heap of his coat and and boots and belt halfway across the cottage. Beorn growled softly. His eyes shone in the dark like an animal's. Dori swallowed hard and planted his feet firmly, tilting up his chin to show that he was not afraid. Honestly, what sort of poor host would skulk in the darkness and startle his guests?

"What are you doing?" Beorn asked, sounding unimpressed.

"Nothing," Dori protested. It occurred to him that rummaging around for scraps was not exactly the highest manners either. "I thought I might have left some bread out from supper."

Beorn tilted his head. "You're hungry?"

"Peckish," Dori qualified.

Beorn snorted and shook his great shaggy head. "So this is the way of dwarves. They bring their pregnant mates on the road with them and leave them to forage for themselves."

"I beg your pardon—" Dori protested in indignation, grasping the insult to his kind before the full sentence made it into his ears. He then paused. Pregnant. "I beg your pardon?"

Beorn loomed over him. Dori held still in challenge, ready to take a swing if need be. Yet as the creature's face neared his own, there was only a deep sniff.

"Only just," Beorn said. "Did you not know?"

"No, of course I did," Dori blustered, for he was not about to be thought a fool or have the company slandered by someone who did not have the good sense not to change into an unnatural beast. "Only just, as you say. And I'm not on the road. I'm going home, to where I was born. That is the way of dwarves."

Beorn drew back with something that might have been a "harrumph." As Dori watched, he took a large cup down from its peg and then quietly lifted the hatch to a cold room. He withdrew a covered pitcher and then filled the cup with its contents. Milk—oh, Dori could smell it, fresh and creamy. His stomach gave a loud curmurring. The cup was pressed upon him, and when he drank, the little longing that had been niggling at him for days finally abated. He finished it all in five big gulps and then burped in satisfaction.

"Thank you," Dori said, wiping his mouth. Then, grateful too for the drink, he added: "Thank you very much."

Beorn made another growling sound, but it didn't seem to be an entirely unfriendly one. He procured a heel of bread and spread it with honey, and this too he gave to Dori before lumbering off to his own bed. Left alone, Dori could not help but touch his belly. Well, he thought, tentatively smiling. That was that, then. Of course, there was no change to feel beneath his hand. It was only a speck of earth yet, not even yet a pearl, and further from its quickening than Dori was from venturing into the lair of a dragon. 

It would be a winter baby, he thought, counting ahead six seasons. A baby. How strange, and how lovely.

He ate the bread and honey slowly, savouring it, and then made his way back to where the company slumbered. He stepped lightly over the snoring young princes and found the empty space at Balin's side. There he lay down, and even though he took care to be quiet, Balin stirred.

"Hm?" Balin inquired softly, not even fully awake but making room for Dori under his arm.

Dori cuddled up and kissed him fondly on the cheek, and then, pleased enough with himself that he thought he might burst, he whispered the happy news in his betrothed's ear.


	2. Chapter 2

If his child was born with eight limbs—or worse, pointed ears—as a result of all the foul magic that had permeated the Mirkwood, Dori was going to bring a legal suit against Thorin Oakenshield, king or not. There had been nothing in the company's compact about giant spiders.

"We may as well sit down," Dori told his brother, when throwing their combined weight against the door and looking for any gaps in the wall had proven fruitless. As much as he disliked being put in a dungeon cell, he liked even less being idle in one, and Ori's hair was a fright.

Ori sat down glumly at Dori's feet. "Do you think Bilbo's all right?"

"I'm sure he'll catch up with us," Dori said. Their hobbit was a delicate creature, but he had proven himself wily and particularly good at hiding. Bilbo had more cause to fear facing Thorin, who by the sounds of it was wearing a trench in his cell with worried pacing.

He unbraided Ori's hair and combed it out. Balin and Thorin were assuredly working on a plan, and they would all be out of this accursed place soon enough. Elves didn't know the first thing about architecture, and there was no way they could build a prison that could keep a company of dwarves captive for very long. 

"You need a trim," he muttered, frowning as he measured the length of Ori's fringe.

Ori's response was mumbled.

"What's that?" Dori said. "Speak up."

"I...thought I would grow it out," Ori said.

"Don't be silly. You're only seventy-five..."

He paused, realising how silly he sounded saying it aloud. It seemed to him that Ori was already quite a bit more grown up than he'd been when they had set off from Ered Luin. He ran his fingers regretfully through the shorter strands. When had his baby brother gotten so tall?

"Well," he finally said. "I don't suppose there's any harm in growing it out a little and seeing how it looks. But don't expect me to come to the rescue when Mother sees you."

Ori tilted his head back and smiled brilliantly up at him. 

She would be happy, wouldn't she? For all that she would give Dori an earful of I-told-you-so's for going off with a set of hobs when his heats were not as far behind him as he'd believed, she was going to be a grandmother. He would deliver her youngest son home safely to her as a proper young journeyman, and perhaps she too would feel these strange little pangs of mourning at the passing of Ori's childhood, but there would be another baby in the family to dote upon soon enough.

* * *

"Did he offer you a deal?" Balin asked when Thorin was returned to their cell. 

"He did," Thorin growled. "I told him he could _ish kakhfê ai’d dur rugnu!_ Him and all his kin!"

Balin sighed and then smiled very tightly. "Well...that's it, then. A deal was our only hope. My firstborn will come into the world in an elven prison. Wonderful. We can call him Thranduil."

Thorin froze. He turned slowly away from the bars and stared at Balin.

Balin nodded grimly.

"Dori?" Thorin called out.

"Yes," Dori called back.

"Are you...well?"

"I'm fine," Dori said. He then added, after a pause, "A little peckish, mind."

Thorin reluctantly met Balin's eyes.

Balin's smile grew even thinner, and so did his sense of mercy. There was a child-to-be to think about.

"Thorin," he said gently, "you know that I love you like my very own brother."

Thorin nodded.

"I have sworn my fealty to you as my lord and king. I serve as you bid me, and I would follow you to the very ends of the earth."

Thorin nodded again and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Balin hushed him. He drew the king into his arms and embraced him tenderly, their brows pressed together and the words that followed for them and them alone.

"But if you do not get us out of here, I will have to hit you. And I will keep hitting you every time you make this situation needlessly worse, harder and harder, until you _fix this_. Do you understand me?"

Thorin hesitated for only one ill-considered moment before nodding once more.

Balin patted his cheek. "Good lad."

* * *

Dori combed his little brother's hair until it gleamed like rose gold and thought about what two winters hence would bring. Six seasons seemed at once too long to wait and not nearly enough time to do all that needed to be done. Nonetheless, midwinter was a lucky time and his favourite part of the year. It was a time for the hearth, when everyone settled in with crafting and mending and baking, keeping warm around the fire and telling tales and singing songs.

Oh! And was there a prettier birthstone than callais? He would have to commission a baby-ring to start with, and perhaps Balin would see fit to procure a gift of his own. He himself had never had a second parent, nor had either of his brothers, and he had always been a little jealous of friends whose sires had made them a necklace or a jewelled keepsake box to which one stone might be added on each birthday of note.

Balin would arrange something lovely, he was sure of it. Callais and gold—white gold, perhaps.

Of course, he thought, babies sometimes took their time in coming. Garnet wouldn't be quite as pretty if the baby had his colouring, but he supposed black hair was just as likely. That thought took him momentarily aback. The idea suddenly seemed much more real when he pictured not the fair-haired memory of Ori's infancy, but a dark-haired delight. Blue eyes, or maybe brown...

"Dori?"

"Yes, pet?"

"Are _you_ going to be all right?"

"Of course," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Ori hesitated, wringing his hands. "It's only that you said it was dangerous, our quest. And now...I mean, Nori said you didn't know if you're going to have a baby, but if you do..."

Dori had in fact gone on at some length about the dangers before they had left home. He had never wanted Ori to have anything to do with this endeavour, and in truth he had not even wanted Nori to join up. He himself had certainly never intended to leave his restaurant and go tramping halfway across the world. Yet Ori had insisted on following Nori, and what was he to do but go with them both to make sure they were safe?

"It isn't any more dangerous today than it was yesterday," Dori said briskly, no longer inclined to think longingly about a life in which he had stayed at home. "Besides, nature has her ways."

His fingers brushed against his belly. He thought he could already feel it firming up just a little, readying itself to turn to dam's stone. He remembered the feeling of Mother's bone-hard belly when it was big with Nori, and then with Ori, like a turtle's shell, a cosy little cavern for the babe within. 

Furthermore, he was now sure that Nori was right and there was nothing but a dead dragon waiting ahead of them. Nori could be a rogue and a wastrel at times, but he had never been stupid and rarely bet on the long odds. A long-dead dragon and gold, that was all. Silver too, and diamonds, and all the places Dori had known as a child and a youth before the dwarves of Erebor had been driven from their homeland. 

As much as he liked the idea of starting a family where his ancestors had lived for thousands of years, he was not completely attached to recovering the family's old apartments. If they were going to reclaim the city, and if he was going to marry Balin, he could certainly do a little better for himself. He would not necessarily press for the royal wing (although, honestly, Balin _was_ a royal cousin, and if Glóin and Óin had their eyes on the best apartments, he would certainly have to put in a word for the sake of fairness), but he would insist on a nice set of rooms located appropriately deep within the mountain.

He began daydreaming about the nursery as he restored Ori's braids. A rich purple would suit either callais or garnet. White oak for the cradle, perhaps. Lamb's wool for the bunting and blankets, which he could set about making himself as soon as they were settled—only the very softest and the very finest. 

His little one would want for nothing.

* * *

"I'll wager the sun's on the rise," Bilbo heard Bofur declare mournfully. "It must be nearly dawn."

Ori groaned. "We're never going to reach the mountain, are we?"

Bilbo slipped off the magic ring with a grin. "Not stuck in here, you're not!"

"Bilbo!" Balin cried.

The rest of the company erupted in a clamour of surprise, and Bilbo shushed them as he unlocked the cells as quickly and quietly as he could. They burst forth hurriedly, and Bilbo was startled when Thorin paused in his escape to sweep him briefly into his arms and hug him tightly. 

"I have never been happier to see anyone in my life," he murmured in Bilbo's ear.

Bilbo returned the embrace and then took him firmly by the hand and led him through the winding corridors and down to the wine cellar, glad to soon be free of this wicked place. Bad enough to take Thorin captive, but to rough him up and black his eye as well? So much for the gentleness and wisdom of elves!


	3. Chapter 3

The chief virtue of the dwarves, in Balin's opinion, was that they were a practical people. They were neither as impetuous as the race of men nor as cold-blooded as the elves. Dwarves knew the value of gold to the ounce and the value of labour to the minute. They understood the stone beneath their feet, made what they needed out of whatever was to hand, and acknowledged the necessity of both manners and merriment when living below ground elbow to elbow with one's neighbours.

They were pragmatic. Balin was pragmatic. And beyond that, he had always considered himself a particularly rational fellow even by dwarven standards. Which was why his lingering ruttiness galled him so. 

It was only a whisper, an itch, a subtle but insidious certainty that he could breathe more easily if everyone who wasn't Dori would only take one large step back.

The desire to retreat somewhere private and spend a great deal of time between his betrothed's thighs was surely not an unreasonable one. He would in fact worry about his own wits and vigour if he wasn't at least a little distracted by the warmth of Dori's skin, and the plumpness of his cheeks, and the memory of him flushed and panting and _yowling_ in the throes of his heat...

The desire to hit Bard of Lake-town over the head with a chair was rather less defensible. 

He was in the home of a strange hob, no kin or friend to him. Under other circumstances, this could easily be borne, but presently it required all his self-control not to take every word from the man's mouth as a personal invitation to a fight. He forced his smiles. He unclenched his fists. He devised a few poetic curses for Mahal, who had by design made the urge to court and win and dote upon a mate irresistible enough to draw even a devoted crafter away from their work.

And, though he knew no good would come of it, he spoke his piece as he and Dori sat together in an out-of-the-way corner of Bard's home while the others finished eating.

"I've been thinking," he began.

Dori glanced up from his cup of ginger tea with a small, expectant smile. The turbulent barrel-ride down the river had been weathered admirably; the smell of dead fish, less so. 

"Kíli may have to stay behind," Balin continued quietly. "His leg won't bear him."

Dori made a soft sound of sympathy. "Poor lad."

"Someone will have to stay with him."

"Óin," Dori said and clucked his tongue. "Then we'll be two short."

"I don't suppose you—"

" _No_."

Balin swallowed hard against the argument that rose reflexively in his throat. It felt like gulping down a handful of pins. 

"Given the circumstances..." he ventured.

"And where are you hiding your extra eyes?" Dori asked, his tone suddenly waspish.

"Pardon me?"

"The ones you'll be keeping on Ori and Nori while you're worried about your brother and the king."

"Your brothers are fine fighters," Balin protested, but he knew he was not on sturdy footing. Nori could certainly look after himself, but Ori was still a lad. A strong one, aye, but not yet filled out in breadth. He was certainly no Dori, who had a jill's immovable stance and the ability to wave around a broadsword one-handed to boot.

"I promised I would look after them."

Dori was staring hard into his cup, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. His shoulders were squared and his chin was firm. Stubbornness was a tremendously attractive look on him, which Balin had been aware of since the first time his eye was caught at the Three Roses: Dori with his hair and beard bound up so tightly, Dori with his sleeves rolled up, Dori quick to seize a disrespectful customer by the ear and heave him out the door. It was such sights that had led Balin to fantasize, idly at first and then with a certain wistfulness, about just what Dori might look like on his back, indulged to the point of abandon, with his hair down and a good spending or two wrung from him. 

Talk sweetly, that whisper insisted. Beguile him for his own good. 

He could, he knew he could. Persuasion was his trade, and it would be a simple matter to appeal to that fierce love Dori had for his brothers and turn it towards what grew in his belly, asking what if, what if. Yet he saw the cruelty in such a trick and quashed the rutty whisper under the weight of his conscience. If he had been thinking about the risks, it stood to reason that Dori had done so too, and at far less of a remove.

"All right," was all he said.

Dori let out a breath he seemed to have been holding and looked at him uncertainly.

"I don't have to like it," Balin clarified. 

"If—" The nettles were out of Dori's voice now, leaving something unbearably more vulnerable behind. "—if you'd like to rescind your suit—"

"Because you aren't an oath-breaker? Of course not," Balin said hurriedly. Then he asked: "Are you rescinding your acceptance?"

"Of course not!"

That was loud enough to draw the attention of the others, but Balin ignored the curious glances sent their way. 

"Then I should say we're stuck with each other."

He gave in to his baser instincts only so far as to rub his beard against Dori's, trading scents, for all that they both smelled of stagnant river water.

"Balin!" Dori protested. Despite his admonishment, he bared his throat for further nuzzling. 

Balin found he was developing a terrible weakness for that little squeak of surprise followed by a shivery sigh. It was difficult not to let his mind wander to what else might warrant such a spark of scandal and slow burn of pleasure—to warm, secluded rooms, and Dori reclining naked on plush bedding, adorned with a few tasteful sapphires, teased and tended to, and _safe_.

Someone—Nori, he would wager—made a gagging sound. 

Dori went pink in the cheeks and drew back, but he took hold of Balin's hand. His touch felt like cold water on a fevered brow, soothing at least somewhat the dissatisfied protective urge in Balin's breast. Balin squeezed his fingers gently.

"My father marched against a horde of goblins when he was twelve months gone with Dwalin. My mother threatened to take his head herself if he went, but by all accounts he fought ferociously. And Dwalin turned out just fine." He paused. "Well, mostly."

"Everything will work out," Dori said, resting his head on Balin's shoulder. "You'll see."

They wed that night nonetheless. 

It was a quiet affair, conducted beneath the noses of the better part of the company. This was an entirely logical decision, Balin assured himself. After all the negotiations undertaken, it only made good sense to ensure that Dori would be taken care of should anything happen to him. Sound planning, surely, and not nature's whim—but if, perhaps, the marriage contract was waterlogged and illegible to any but its drafters, then Thorin and Glóin, who dutifully signed it as witnesses, were solicitous enough to keep their mouths shut and leave him his illusions.


	4. Chapter 4

No, Bilbo decided. 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

He had survived trolls, goblins, and orcs, all with what he felt was admirable aplomb. He had aided in the slaying of a dragon and the retaking of a kingdom. He had even, he would like it noted, navigated the particularly vexatious etiquette of dwarven mating rituals without finding himself punched in the nose or dragged into an orgy. All in all it had been a very successful adventure to date, and now that the company was one skirmish away from what Bilbo very much hoped was a celebratory feast and baths for all, he did not intend for the entire endeavour to be spoilt by Thorin Oakenshield's sudden fixation on a shiny rock.

"Let me make sure I understand..." he said.

The rest of the company looked at Bilbo and then at Thorin and then warily back at Bilbo. Ever since words like "Refuse to parlay" and "No claim to my people's wealth" had begun to be uttered, the mood had grown distinctly tense. 

"There are a lot of very angry men in Lake-town, some equally angry elves in Mirkwood, and some frankly terrifying orcs on the road," Bilbo continued, "but instead of dealing with any of _that_ right now, we are all to search for this Arkenstone of yours."

Thorin's fever-bright eyes narrowed at him. He was flushed and had a restless fire to him that might have been fearsome under other circumstances but at the moment only reminded Bilbo of his fidgety, flustered pacing while standing guard over Dori. Bilbo crossed his arms sternly and met Thorin's gaze with stubborn exasperation. He'd had his fill of terror, thank you very much. Besides, in his experience it was difficult to be afraid of someone once you knew that he hiccoughed when he came.

"Burglar—"

At Bilbo's incredulous look, some of that fire was promptly extinguished.

"Bilbo," Thorin amended. He shook his head sharply as if trying to rattle something loose. "Bilbo, it is no mere gem."

A pale smile was offered, which in Thorin's current state was no more reassuring than his ill-tempered scowls. His hands shaped themselves restlessly around the air as though he held what he sought already.

"It represents the right of my line to rule this kingdom. All that we achieved here, all we made. The blessing of the mountain..."

Heavens help him, if this turned out to be another obtuse dwarven euphemism and the stone he had hidden in the lining of his coat was just a particularly pretty diamond, he was going to throw every single dwarf here into the lake. 

"It must be worth a great deal," Bilbo said.

Thorin nodded quickly, apparently relieved to have Bilbo understand him. "It is worth everything."

Uneasy glances were exchanged among the company. Bilbo caught the quirk of an eyebrow from Balin.

"Would you trade your share of the treasure for it?" Bilbo asked.

Thorin did not hesitate. "Yes."

Bilbo gestured expansively at the landscape of gold and jewels, the scope of which was making even him a little dizzy. " _All_ of this treasure?"

"Yes." 

"Your life?"

" _Yes_."

"Someone else's life?"

Thorin's mouth opened reflexively, but this time no words came forth. 

"Fili's?" Bilbo pressed. "Kili's?"

"No, I—"

"Let's start smaller. How about a baby?"

Thorin stepped back, startled. His brow creased. "What?"

"That's how it always goes in stories," Bilbo said evenly. "When the hero wants something very badly, like a victory, or the love of his life, or, or, or rapunzel for his pregnant mate, the villain always asks for his firstborn in payment. Now, you don't have one, and I suppose your nephews are a bit long in the tooth, but Dori's expecting..."

Dori surged forward with a vicious snarl, but Balin—oh, bless him for being the quickest of a hard-headed lot—caught him by the arm and pulled him back, murmuring something soothingly in his ear.

Bilbo forged on: "If the Master of Lake-town had the Arkenstone, and all he wanted in return for it was one little baby—"

"I'd kill him!" Thorin declared, the strange light in his eye giving way to familiar steel. "But—"

"Balin?" Bilbo prompted.

Balin let go of Dori and stepped forward. He looked up at Thorin searchingly and then delivered one short, sharp smack to the side of Thorin's head.

Thorin flinched and frowned at Balin reproachfully as he rubbed his temple. "Will you stop doing that?"

"No 'but's, laddie," Balin said firmly. "I'd not have followed you this far if I doubted you."

Thorin hesitated. "You aren't the rest of the world, Balin."

"No, I am not," Balin agreed. "But I am a married dwarf now, and I have more than your friendship to consider. I would walk away from you and my share in this endeavour without one whit of regret if needs must."

Dori let out another sound of protest—this time more squawk than snarl. Thorin too looked momentarily betrayed, but Balin seized him by the shoulders and spoke to him quietly, his voice tight with restrained feeling.

"None has more leave to spurn your rule than I do. My father's line is Durin's own, the same as yours, and there are some who reckon me wise who would follow me to a new land if I chose to lead them. Yet I would have my child born here and know no other home than Erebor. I would have my child call you king."

Thorin closed his eyes. He breathed out slowly. "Your child..."

"Aye," Balin said softly. "There is no other right to rule, laddie. None that matters."

A long, fragile moment passed in silence. Then Thorin nodded, uncertainly at first and then with growing conviction. He lowered his brow briefly against Balin's, and Bilbo saw his apple bob as he swallowed hard.

"What do I—" Thorin cleared his throat. "What would you advise?"

Balin stepped back with a satisfied nod and patted Thorin briskly on the arm. 

"We pay out our neighbours. _Conservatively_ ," he clarified before Thorin, and moreover half the company, could naysay him, "else we will end up paying them twice when they profit from a city restored."

Thorin's gaze slid to the sea of gold. His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Do it. Take Glóin with you."

"A fine choice," Balin said, bowing shallowly.

"And if the Arkenstone turns up in the process..." Thorin said, seemingly unable to help himself.

"I will send word immediately," Balin promised.

Bilbo took one look at the lingering hunger on Thorin's face and made a private note to chuck the thing down the nearest privy.

"Come on," he said, boldly taking Thorin by the elbow and giving him a steadying squeeze. "You need to get some food into you. It's all that cram that's causing the trouble, mark my words. My Uncle Minto was the same way. If you let him eat nothing but bread, his humours would plummet and he'd be ill and out of sorts all day..."

Thorin had the gall to look upon him with fond tolerance, as though Bilbo were the one who had momentarily lost his wits. Yet he gave a small nod in acquiescence, and with the fledgling shrewdness of a true king, he kept his mouth shut and allowed himself to be led away from the treasury.


	5. Chapter 5

When all their number had been safely accounted for and the River Running was sweeping the black blood of orcs to the sea, Dori dragged his husband into a quiet corner of the armoury and proceeded to kiss him as if their lives depended upon it. 

He was alive. They were alive. Thank the Maker, they were alive, they were alive, they were alive...

His blood was hot, positively a-boil with battle-fever. His heart was drumming victory songs in his chest, and his hands would not stop shaking. He moaned in hungry impatience as Balin backed him up against the wall. The smell of blood and smoke hung over them both, in their clothes and in their hair. Balin struggled out of his coat of mail in between kisses and then freed Dori of his own.

Steel clanked against stone, links slithering as the mail pooled on the floor. Dori yanked Balin close again, burying his face in the reassuring bristle and warm hobbish scent of his beard. He was all wound up, his sex throbbing, and he could feel an answering hardness poking into his belly as Balin dropped burning kisses down the side of his neck.

A plea took shape on his lips, but there proved to be no need for it. Balin's gloves were the next thing to hit the floor, followed shortly thereafter by Balin's knees. Dori's trousers were deftly unfastened, and Balin fell upon him like a dwarf starving.

Oh, bless him. 

A squeak of delight slipped from him at the first nudge of Balin's nose against his sex. Lips and tongue followed—gentle breath and lovely whiskers against his bare skin—and then a generous, wet-mouthed sucking that made Dori's knees give a precarious wobble.

His head thumped back against the wall. He set his hands on Balin's shoulders and then, moaning, slid them into his unruly curls instead and held on tightly. Bloodlust and nerves melted into something much more pleasant and sank low in his belly. His heartbeat slowed even as the throbbing in his sex grew more urgent. One of Balin's hands was stroking his thigh and the other was out of sight, seeing to Balin's pleasure with a brisk, half-muffled rhythm. 

Dori's eyes squeezed shut as his peak neared. It came upon him swift and sweetly, lifting him onto his toes. He let out a joyful cry as he shivered, fingers twisting in Balin's hair. Then he came down dizzy, smiling, wiggling, spreading his thighs apart shamelessly as a hot tongue chased after the wetness he'd spent. 

In the warm glow that followed, he sagged against the wall. He petted Balin's crown softly and listened to him bring himself off with a throaty groan of satisfaction. 

"Oh, that's better," Dori sighed as Balin, panting, rested a cheek against his hip. "That's much better."

His wobbly knees finally gave out on him, and he sank down slowly to the floor to sit with Balin. A grunt escaped him as the weight came off his swollen feet.

"Are you hurt?" Balin asked, his gaze sharpening abruptly.

Dori shook his head and waved a hand vaguely in dismissal. "Sitting. Sitting down is good."

Balin's concern turned ton an indulgent smile, and he kissed Dori on the tip of the nose before heaving himself upright. "Oof. Sit, then. I'll be right back."

A faint sound of protest was all Dori could manage. Now that he was down, it was going to take another orc attack—or barring that, a winch and cable—to get him up again. All the exhaustion accrued during the battle, during the whole of this hardly credible endeavour, seemed to have caught up with him at once. His head felt heavy, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open until Balin came back with what turned out to be some dusty sacking and what might have once been curtains.

Balin assembled the heap into a serviceable pallet and then promptly flopped down upon it. He patted the space beside him invitingly.

Dori tutted. "At least take off your boots."

Balin did not move. Yawning, Dori crawled over to him and pulled both his boots off for him. He gave Balin's feet a rub, earning a grateful moan before he was pulled down for a cuddle.

"I am too old for battles," Balin declared, arranging Dori in his arms.

Dori snuggled up and hummed his heartfelt agreement. All manner of little aches were making themselves known now that his fighting fire had been extinguished, and he felt as if he could easily sleep for ten years straight.

A thought occurred to him.

"Balin?"

"Mf?"

Dori jostled him. " _Balin_."

Balin opened his tired eyes. "What's the matter?"

Dori peeped up at him worriedly. "You don't think we're too old to be parents, do you?"

To his relief, Balin smiled. "I don't have a great deal of experience, but I believe a kit isn't entirely the same thing as an army of orcs."

That seemed like a valid point. Nonetheless, Dori could not help but counter: "You didn't grow up with Nori."

"I grew up with Dwalin," Balin said wryly. "He went through a biting phase. I still have a scar on my left shin."

Dori eased slightly as Balin rubbed his back. 

"I'll wager you were your mother's darling," Balin said.

He sniffed, not unmoved by the flattery but remembering well his mother's complaints. "I was a fussy kit, apparently. And I used to take off all my clothes and run around the house naked when there was company over."

Balin's chest shook with suppressed laughter beneath Dori's cheek. "Imagine that."

"It isn't funny," Dori protested, but he could not summon any real annoyance. Not when he was so sleepy, and not when Balin was now sweetly kneading the back of his neck. 

His husband, he was certain, had been a lovely kit. He pictured him as he must have looked then, round and sweet, with plump cheeks and messy tufts of soft dark hair. Quiet, he supposed. Fond of stories. A good babe, when he wasn't being too clever for himself. 

At the very least, Dori told himself as he began to drift off in Balin's embrace, he could muster enough energy to raise a little one like that. 

"Go to sleep," Balin murmured, giving him a gentle squeeze. "We can worry in the morning."


End file.
